Would it Kill You to Smile?
by Cade Foster
Summary: The origins of The Joker have never been fully explained, until now. See how Jack Napier grew from innocent little boy to Gotham's most reviled villain. Rated M for language and violence.


Jack felt the pain burn across his face as his father struck him again.

"You filthy beast!" he screamed, shaking Jack by the shoulders. "You're eleven years old and you're still pissing the fucking bed! Look at what you did!" Ben Napier spun his son around fiercely so he could see the large damp patch on the bedsheets. It was in the middle of the night, yet the sky was clear, allowing some moonlight to illuminate the bed in Jack's room.

"I'm sorry." Jack replied sheepishly, holding a hand to the left side of his face. He could feel the intense heat radiating from his skin; his father never held back when he hit him.

Ben hit him harder, and Jack's head snapped back from the blow. "Sorry!? That's all you can say for yourself?" He shoved Jack to the floor so hard that his knees were rug burned. Jack lifted his head enough to stare blankly at his father, who looked even more imposing now that he towered over Jack like a drunken beast, ready to tear into him at a moment's notice.

* * *

Jack was terrified of his father. Ben Napier was always short-tempered, but somehow the fuse was cut even shorter when he was drinking, and that was almost every day since he lost his job at the city's power plant. And, whatever ways Ben learned to relieve stress, he learned from his own father. Jack remembered overhearing a conversation between his parents when he was seven, during which his father admitted that he was physically abused by Jack's grandfather when he was a child. Jack heard Ben swear through tears of shame that he would never hit him or his mother. It was the first time in Jack's life that he saw his father cry.

He broke that promise not long after Jack's tenth birthday. A week had passed since he had been laid off from Gotham Light & Power, and Ben had spiraled into a deep depression, drinking while he was at home and doing God knows what while he was out. Julia, Jack's mother, always had her suspicions as to what her husband was doing, so she confronted him one night when he stumbled through the front door, reeking of whiskey and something else she couldn't quite place.

"It's 4:30. Where have you been?" she demanded from her place in the rocking chair.

"Out with the guys," Ben snapped back, trying to find his way to the couch. "We had some drinks at McGinty's downtown." He burped and wiped the spittle from his moustache. "What's it to you, anyway? It's not like you care where I am any other night. What's so fuckin' special about tonight?"

Julia stood up. For a brief second, all was silent, except for the rhythmic creaking of the old wooden rocking chair.

"What's so fuckin' special," she started, fists trembling with rage, "is that I called McGinty's two and a half hours ago looking for you. PJ told me that he saw you leave with a woman only a few minutes before." In the light from the lamp in the corner of the living room, Julia saw a flicker of fear in Ben's face. This confirmed her suspicion, but she wanted to hear him admit it. She emphasized every word of the next thing she said. "So, where the fuck were you tonight?"

Jack heard the argument from upstairs, so he climbed out of his bed, dressed in his pajamas, and shuffled his way down the hall to the top of the staircase. Dragging behind him was the little clown doll he slept with. The hardwood floor in the hallway felt cold on his bare feet, as he was much more used to the warmer carpet in his bedroom. He wasn't sure what his parents were fighting about, but he knew it had something to do with his father's midnight excursions. Jack stopped at the top of the stairs and sat down to get a better view through the rails. He saw his mother facing away from him, dressed in her pale yellow nightgown, fists clenched at her sides. In front of her stood his father, looking defensive, but disheveled as usual. He walked in just in time for his mother to ask Ben where the fuck he was that night.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't lie to me, Ben!" she screamed at him. "I can smell her on you, for Christ's sake!"

Ben had no answer for her. Jack watched from his perch on the staircase as he stared blankly at his wife, whose whole body was shaking now with anger.

A sob escaped Julia's lips, as she fought to keep from crying. "So it's true then." She ran a hand through her brown hair.

The expression on Ben's face didn't change; in fact he didn't even blink. "I don't know what you're---"

The slap echoed through the house like an explosion. Jack didn't even know what happened until he saw his father holding the side of his face, staring daggers at Julia. After a couple of seconds it finally dawned on Jack that his father had been slapped in the face, and it seemed that his father also didn't register the blow right away. Instead, he continued to stare horrifyingly at Julia, unable to speak a word.

Julia, however, gasped and sank to her knees. Jack couldn't see her face, but he could imagine she wore a look of shock and horror, as if she couldn't even believe what she had done.

Neither could his father.

Jack watched in silent terror as the brute that was his father changed from drunken embarrassment to violent psychopath in a split second. Ben threw his coat to the floor and grabbed his wife by the shoulders, hauling her to her feet. He held his face mere inches away from his own and screamed at her.

"Don't you _ever_ fucking do that again, do you hear me!? You worthless bitch!"

Jack saw what was coming before his mother did. Ben raised his arm and struck his wife across the face with the back of his hand. It left a bright red welt on her cheek, and she cried out in pain.

"I'll teach you how to respect your husband!" Another slap.

Jack wanted so badly to bolt down over the stairs and come to his mother's aid, but fear wouldn't allow him the luxury of movement. It took everything he had in him not to cry out and give away his position, yet he was so mad at his father. Jack couldn't believe that he would break the only promise he heard his father ever make. He began to taste blood from biting his lip so hard, and his fists clenched around his beloved hand-knit doll, made for him by his late grandmother. Luckily for Jack, the doll made no noise as he started twisting its head around.

It was then that Jack's mother started to cry. He couldn't watch that. He slipped back into his room quietly and curled up in his bed. He clamped a pillow over his head and tried to block out the domestic violence happening downstairs. The pillow did nothing; the sounds of the slapping and his mother's cries for Ben to stop still resonated in Jack's head. That night he decided that he hated his father, and he cried himself to sleep.

Jack quickly learned not to cry, though, from the first night that his father had hit him. Jack had wet the bed again; he didn't understand why it kept happening, but he learned that he didn't have to wake up his parents every time it did. He woke up from a bad dream one night to find that his bedsheets were soaking with his urine. Sighing quietly, he got out of bed and changed his soiled pajamas, and tip-toed to the linen closet next to his parents' room to get clean sheets. He was put more on edge when he found that their door was ajar.

His father stirred in his sleep. Jack froze. He desperately didn't want to wake him, especially with his temper problems. Cracking open the closet door as quietly as he could, Jack grabbed a clean set of sheets for his bed, and all the while he didn't dare breathe. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears as he clicked the door closed and, when he was certain that his father wouldn't wake up, he hurried back to his bedroom to change the musty-smelling sheets.

Jack closed his bedroom door without a sound and breathed a sigh of relief. He was in the safe zone, now; as long as he didn't make any loud noise, he could change the sheets in peace. With the sheets bundled up in his arms, he quickly made for the bed, only to bring up solid when he found that a section of the sheets had been caught in the door when he closed it. He was like a dog that reached the end of his leash when he was yanked off his feet and came crashing to the floor with a loud thud.

He panicked. He knew he was in trouble, now. His father had definitely heard the noise and would be in to see what was happening. Jack's heart leaped up in his throat when he heard the heavy footsteps and incomprehensible cursing coming from down the hall. He scrambled up to his feet, rubbing his tender behind as his father burst through the bedroom door.

"What the fuck are you doing, boy? Get your ass to bed, now." When Ben saw Jack standing in front of him, holding an armful of sheets, he grew furious. He didn't even have to look at the soaking patch of urine on Jack's bed to know what was going on. "God damn it, I thought I told you to stop pissing your damn bed! What the fuck do I have to do in order for you to get it through your thick head?" He poked Jack's forehead hard with his index finger as he spoke.

Jack winced, and kept his gaze at the floor. "I'm sorry, Dad," he mumbled. "I can't control it. It just sort of... happens."

It was true. He really didn't know why he was still wetting the bed, and he hated it. He despised waking up in a giant puddle of his own urine, his pajama pants stuck to his legs and the acrid musty odor assaulting his nostrils. The worst part was that he couldn't stop, even after four months of the same routine. Jack took some small comfort only in the fact that he wet the bed less frequently now.

Still, it did nothing to cool Ben's temper. He grabbed the clean ball of bedsheets out of Jack's arms and threw it across the room. "It just happens, does it?" He pointed to the bed. "_That_ doesn't just fucking happen, boy! Normal kids don't just piss the bed for four months straight! Should I start buying you some fucking diapers or something?"

Jack said nothing, although he wanted nothing more than to hurt his father. His green eyes were filled to the brim with anger, yet he kept them focused on the floor. He wasn't sure why he wasn't able to look at his dad; Jack imagined it was because he would lunge at him if he saw that condescending, pitiless look in his father's eyes one more time, although it was more likely out of a deep fear that Jack didn't look at him.

"Well?" Ben prodded. "What have you got to say for yourself, boy?" When Jack still didn't answer, when he still didn't look at him, Ben harrumphed and turned to exit the room. "You're fuckin' worthless," he added as he took a step to leave.

What Jack said next, he also couldn't control.

"I hate you."

His father froze in his tracks. Ben spun around and glared at his son with such intense fury. To Jack, who wanted to run away but whose legs just wouldn't let him, it was the same look as that night his mother had slapped him.

"What did you just say to me?" Ben's voice was just barely a whisper.

Jack was in trouble, and he knew it. He was utterly mortified at what he had just said, but at the same time, a strange sense of satisfaction overwhelmed him. This was the first time that he had ever stood up to his father, whom he truly loathed. He stared at his father, unsure of what he felt more, pleasure or fear. He told his dad again.

"I hate you," he said louder.

He never experienced that type of pain before. The impact of his father's hand across his face was almost enough to break his neck, he thought. The burning set in moments after the actual slap, and it made his eyes well up with tears, although Jack wasn't completely positive he actually wasn't crying. He knew then what his mother felt that night, and it only intensified his hatred for his father. Even thinking about that man, that horrid abusive beast, as his father, made Jack sick to his stomach.

As he wiped the tears from his eyes, Jack saw the Beast undo his belt. He could only guess what was coming, but he vowed to himself that he would take it. He wouldn't give the Beast the satisfaction of telling him to stop.

In the midst of the cursing and spitting, the Beast ripped off Jack's pajama shirt and pulled down his pants. Jack braced himself.

"You fucking disrespectful little shit!" the Beast emphasized with each slap of the belt. Jack was curled up on the floor, wincing with every hit to his back and legs, but he forced himself to keep quiet. He wouldn't dare let his father hear him cry, even though the lashes kept coming, leaving large red welts all over his body.

Things got worse when Jack's mother tried to intervene. She burst in the door, dressed in the same nightgown she wore that traumatizing night, and yelled at Ben for him to stop.

"For Christ's sake, Ben, stop it! He's just a child!"

"Shut the fuck up, Julia, I'll punish the boy the way I want to!" he retorted, and lashed Jack again.

By this time, Jack had almost become numb to the pain. The lashes were in such rhythm that he knew when to brace himself the most. He kept his head covered with his arms as the belt slapped hard against his back, which, along with his thighs, were blood red. He wanted the hitting to stop, but it kept coming, complete with long strings of curses from the Beast.

Jack barely registered his mother's voice when she screamed at Ben again. This time, however, she grabbed his arm and tried to take the belt from him. The Beast swung his free arm around and caught her on the side of the head. She fell to the floor, disoriented. Jack saw her through teary eyes as her head lolled back. He was sure she had suffered a concussion, but he couldn't help her. He was too busy preparing for the next hit. He closed his eyes and waited for the Beast to strike him again with the thick leather belt.

Nothing happened. Jack was confused suddenly, but then an astonishing sense of relief washed over him like a wave crashing against a rocky coast. He shut his eyes and relaxed a little in the moment of peace, but then tensed up when he heard his father's footsteps around the room. He didn't dare open them to see what was happening, although he heard his father pick up his mother's prone nearly-unconscious body and walk down the hall to their bedroom. Jack wanted to think it was over, but he couldn't be sure. He waited a few minutes before he allowed his body to relax, only to re-tense as the heavy footsteps sounded again on the hardwood floor.

_This is it,_ Jack thought. _He's come to finish me off._

The footsteps grew louder as his father approached his bedroom again. Only this time, the Beast stopped at Jack's door, harrumphed, and slammed the door shut before trampling down the stairs.

Jack collapsed onto the floor, aching and burning all over. The tears fell freely now, but he made no sound. Sweat matted his wavy brown hair to his head, and he tried to stand. His legs burned, but he forced himself to his feet. He had survived his first intense beating from the man he from that moment on refused to call "Father", and he felt emotionally and physically drained. Every movement Jack made was excruciating. He asked himself why any ten-year-old boy would have to feel that much pain.

He grabbed his pajama pants off the floor and painfully put them back on. Looking around for the accompanying shirt, Jack saw that it found itself hanging off the back of the chair at his desk, and the collar was torn and stretched beyond repair. He sniffed back the mucus that follows a good cry and decided to leave the shirt where it was. His main concern then was sleep.

The bedsheets were still soaked with his urine, and Jack didn't notice the smell anymore until he was standing right next to the bed. He hated himself for wetting the bed again. Even more than that, he hated his father, not for beating him mercilessly, but for hitting his mother, whom Jack viewed as the goddess who had come to save him from the wrath of the Beast. He would never forgive him for that.

Angrily, Jack tore off the stained sheets and hurled them to the floor, where they landed in a wet heap. He didn't even replace them with the clean sheets that were still in a pile halfway across the room; instead he collapsed onto the bare mattress. Jack had to lie on his stomach to keep the welts from rubbing up against the mattress, and sleep finally overtook his senses. Jack passed out from exhaustion to the sight of his alarm clock, which read 4:44 a.m. He made a brief wish before he blacked out.

"I wish my father were dead."

* * *

Jack had endured this same punishment many times from the Beast, and it was almost always for the same reason. If Jack wet the bed, the Beast would hit him as some sick and twisted incentive to stop. But, the more he hit Jack, the more often Jack would wet the bed in response to the stress and anxiety. It was an endless cycle of beatings that Jack had somehow become accustom to. He knew they would stop either once his father got too tired or too drunk to continue, and as he stared up at his father from his position on the floor, he could tell that fatigue would soon get the best of the Beast.

His mother stopped coming to his aid a few weeks before, not that Jack blamed her. The Beast had broken her; the fight in her to stand up to her abusive husband had been taken away through years of abuse and suffering. The Goddess had been defeated, and Jack swore that he wouldn't let the Beast break him as well. He would take all the beatings, even if they did leave permanent scarring.

Both Jack and his father stared at each other for what seemed hours. Jack knew that he had to act defeated for the Beast to leave him alone, so he put on his best mask of emptiness and forced the fury out of his eyes. He knew it was all about his father showing control, so Jack let him think he had won. The Beast looked down his nose at his son and snorted in contempt. Jack viewed that as a sign of an impending victory, and smiled internally. He knew that the final blow would be dealt any minute.

"Hmph. Fuckin' worthless."

_Bingo_, Jack thought. The Beast always called him worthless when he was finished with the belt. Without another word, the Beast spun on his heel and stomped out the door and down the hall, slamming his bedroom door shut behind him. The victory ritual.

Jack smiled to himself as he got up from the floor. His back and legs still burned, and his face still felt hot from the backhand slap, but Jack had found better ways to block out the pain, at least until the morning. Without thinking, his legs dragged him around the room until he finished changing the dirty bedsheets and put them in the large black hamper in the corner of the room. He wearily climbed into bed and wished the same wish he had for the past year.

"I wish he were dead."


End file.
